I’m not sure how to get home,
so I’m outside your apartment.
I should tell you, I went
for the double whiskey sour.
and then a few whiskeys more.
I’m still much better at drinking
than stopping, unfortunately.
Earlier they were strippers, oiled
and beautiful, spinning like meat
on a spit. Earlier I thought of you.
How you were far away, where my hand
couldn’t wrap around the curve
of your thigh.
The sidewalks are glittering
from the rain and you are still
beautiful. This is me
throwing pebbles. If you want to,
please let me in.
I want to curl into the sweet expanse
of your back. I want to wake up,
make you coffee, make you laugh,
make myself into the person
who is worthy of you. You
have been strong so much longer
than I’ve been good.
To speak it simply now:
you are the whole of my heart.
You are the choke on my beer.
You are the last voice
before I shuffle off this mortal shitshow.
The constellations whispering to me
there will never be another one
like you. I want it written on my tombstone.
Let our love be how I’m remembered.
(Source: clementinevonradics, via whereareyoupress)
I wish I wrote the way I thought;
With maddening hunger.
I’d write to the point of suffocation.
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns,
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing.
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should. — Benedict Smith, I Wish I Wrote The Way I Thought (via benedictsmith)
(Source: kill-me-after, via nir-v-ana)
Laura Wiess, Such a Pretty Girl
This side of @yungsprout.
Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence. — The Little Prince (via psych-facts)
(Source: nightmare-in-w0nderland, via dominicmatthew)